So sorry, so very sorry
by neska-polita
Summary: In Ch. 42, "Alone! Alone!" Mr. Thornton goes to Crampton to ask about Margaret and is dismissed by Dixon, but saved by Mr. Bell. What would have have happened if they had met then?


A/N: Thank you everyone who's been so kind to leave a message or favorite this story. Also, according to FF stats this is my most popular story, so thanks for still reading me.

I would like to hear your thoughts on how this could be continued. I imagined it as a very small scene interwoven with the original book (I even copied the original parts before and after), and I cannot imagine a continuation. But if someone has an idea to develop it, I may give it a try!

Every time I reread North and South, my imagination goes to the same scene that the book doesn't include: in Chapter 42, "Alone! Alone!" Mr. Thornton goes to Crampton to ask about Margaret. He is dismissed by Dixon but taken in by Mr. Bell. What would have happened if he had seen Margaret then?

Here's a conversation they both have which doesn't change their perception of each other and is simply inserted in the story. If it had been in the original manuscript I'm sure Dickens would have cut it off! My first ever fanfic. I hope you like it.

Language note: I am not an English native speaker, and I'm more familiar with American English so I didn't try to write in Gaskell's style. I tried to avoid anachronisms (nobody says "OK" or "stuff"), but the spelling is current and American-like. I hope you, kind readers, don't mind.

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><p><em>'<em>_Thornton__! __is __that __you__? __Come__ in __for __a__ minute __or __two__; __I__ want __to__ speak__ to __you__.' __So __Mr__. __Thornton __went __into __the __study__, __and __Dixon__ had __to __retreat __into __the __kitchen__, __and __reinstate__ herself __in __her __own__ esteem__ by __a __prodigious __story __of __Sir __John __Beresford__'__s __coach__ and __six__, __when __he __was __high__ sheriff__._

_'__I __don__'__t __know __what__ I __wanted__ to__ say__ to__ you __after __all__. __Only __it__'__s __dull __enough__ to __sit __in __a __room__ where __every thing __speaks__ to __you __of __a__ dead__ friend__. __Yet __Margaret __and __her __aunt __must __have __the __drawing__room__ to __themselves__!'_

_'__Is __Mrs__. - __is __her __aunt __come__?' __asked __Mr__. __Thornton__._

_'__Come__? __Yes__! __maid__ and__ all__. __One __would __have__ thought __she__ might __have __come __by __herself __at__ such __a __time__! __And__ now__ I __shall __have __to __turn__ out __and __find __my __way __to __the __Clarendon__.'_

_'__You __must __not __go __to __the __Clarendon__. __We__ have __five __or__ six__ empty__ bed__-__rooms__ at __home__.'_

_'__Well __aired__?'_

_'__I__ think__ you __may __trust __my__ mother __for __that__.'_

_'__Then__ I__'__ll __only __run __up__-__stairs __and__ wish __that __wan__ girl __good__-__night__, __and __make __my __bow __to __her __aunt__, __and__ go __off __with __you__ straight__.'_

_Mr__. __Bell __was __some__time __up__-__stairs__. __Mr__. __Thornton __began __to __think __it __long__, __for __he __was __full __of __business__, __and__ had __hardly __been __able __to__ spare __the __time __for __running__ up__ to __Crampton__, __and __enquiring __how __Miss __Hale __was__._

Mr. Thornton stood alone in the room and in spite of his anxiety to go back to business he let his mind wander. He had spent many pleasant evenings in this room, usually reading with Mr. Hale but sometimes also having tea with Mrs. Hale and Margaret. This very walls, stripped of that awful original wallpaper only because he hadn't wanted her to be surrounded by things she didn't like, had also witnessed his pitiful marriage proposal - here Mr. Thornton let out an involuntary sigh at the recollection, for painful and embarrassing as the situation had been, the words he uttered had been formed within the depths of his soul. And he could not (he would not!) blame his heart for choosing someone like Margaret Hale as the object of its affection. That she would not reciprocate his feelings was only for him to regret - her heart had chosen another man, a gentleman she would now follow into happiness but her regal presence and her lively spirit would stay in his mind... no, he would never regret meeting her.

Engrossed in such thoughts he approached one bookcase far from the door, and in the dim light of Milton's smoky afternoon he took and leafed through a copy of Dante's Inferno. He heard light steps from the staircase and assumed it was Margaret's aunt's maid, so he kept reading in his dark nook without raising his head from the book. From the corner of his eye he saw a female figure entering the room with her face downwards. With a swift fluid motion she closed the door behind her and knelt before Mr. Hale's favorite chair, where she buried her face in pillows and cried her heart out. The muffled sounds of her sobs and moans were clearly audible for anyone else present in the room, which he guessed, she wasn't aware of there being any.

Seeing Margaret in such state brought a moment of irrationality in which he, John Thornton, a man who prided himself on being fair and just, simply hated former Reverend Richard Hale: for dying without previous notice, for causing his beloved daughter so much pain and sorrow. For leaving Margaret alone in this world, and also (that he would never say this aloud didn't make it any less true) for effectively putting an end to her stay in Milton, only two miles of brisk walking away from Marlborough Mills and himself. In a fleeting instant of revelation he realized this was probably the last time they'd meet, in a long time at least, and while she would forever associate him with sadness and bereavement, one great rough fellow from smoky Milton, he would always treasure everything about her as the things most precious to his heart.

Two different things were now equally obvious to Mr. Thornton. One, that he was intruding a very private moment, seeing and hearing things that weren't meant for anyone to see or hear; and second, that he could not leave the room unnoticed. Sooner or later Margaret would collect herself and find him there, standing like a lamppost, staring like an unconcerned visitor to a zoo, useful as last week's news, and he didn't think she'd like it.

He considered his options. He might clear his throat loudly and say the usual words once she acknowledged his presence, ignoring the fact that she was almost lying on the floor, that her beautiful face would be swollen and blotched, that her voice would be broken. He stood a little longer still not deciding what to do, and took a tentative step forward, towards her or maybe the door. The rug swallowed the noise so he took another step, and then one more, and two more steps later he was towering over her prone wailing figure.

The certainty that they would never meet again was as material as an epitaph etched on a tombstone, and after everything that had happened between the two of them, every time when impropriety had been overlooked for the greater sake of the situation, he decided, against his better judgment and the memories attached to it, to kneel by her side and offer her all the comfort she would accept from him.

He reasoned that if she would despise him for it, if she would reject him again, it would not change the general nature of her disposition towards him, which had never been good and had turned irreversibly for worse after his proposal. In spite of all he had told himself so many times, of what he had first assumed and she had then confirmed, of the pain he knew that would ensue, he lowered himself by her side and lightly touched her arm and softly called her name.

She looked up immediately, her eyes wide and mouth half open in surprise. Her nose was blotched and swollen, her eyes red, her cheeks wet - still she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. He felt compelled to explain his presence quickly, even though those weren't the words he longed to say.

'I met Mr. Bell in the train and he told me the news. I am waiting for him to come down, as he is staying at my house tonight."

Her eyes were still big but she didn't look angry or exasperated or anything he had feared. She seemed so absorbed by her own distress to spare any animosity for him, so he decided to ignore their unusual physical position and continued:

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hale. Your father was a beloved friend and he will be missed."

She nodded and looked away, and her face contorted and more unwanted tears glided down her cheeks. Being so close, so improperly and unacceptably close as they were right now he could smell her sweet breath, and he could think of not one thing he would not willingly give only to be able to kiss and taste those tears, to feel the delicious weight of her head on his shoulder and have her round arms wrapped around his neck as he had once. But that would be going too far so he stood up, softly and carefully pulling her up to her feet with him. She sat on the chair and tried to compose herself breathing deeply. He sat on the chair facing her.

'Are you going to Oxford?', she finally asked.

'Yes, I am. If that is alright with you, Miss Hale.'

She nodded almost imperceptibly and her eyes welled again.

'I am sorry... I apologize, Mr. Thornton, I can't seem to control myself.' She opened her lips as to say something else but only sighed.

That she strove to keep an appearance of composure was only a means to keep her distance, him being only an acquaintance not allowed to witness her grief first hand. He understood that and he decided that he would not attempt to make her to open up to him more than what she inadvertently had. He stuck to facts and tried to harden his voice ever so slightly, just as if they were meeting on a busy street.

'Miss Hale, I wondered if there's anything you would like...' here Mr. Thornton paused, searching for the gentlest words, 'if you would like your father to be buried with something belonging to Mrs. Hale'.

She looked up at him, almost disoriented. His eyes told her of a world of feelings she was too overwhelmed to understand or acknowledge, but added to her regret and bereavement.

'A belonging of Mrs. Hale or of yours', he finished.

'That is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Thornton', she replied in a small voice after a moment. 'I do... I have... I'll have Dixon or Aunt Shaw to pick something for you, though they might take some time.'

'I can send for it tomorrow, in the early morning' he said, and he would have come himself if he knew Margaret would be handing out the belonging. 'Our train leaves at 8.23, I suppose someone can come collect it at 7.30.' Years of practice in setting plans and giving orders made his voice sound steadier than he felt, and it made sense since being master of a mill was what he did best. Whether that's what he wanted, and right now he wasn't so sure himself, was completely another question.

He didn't want to lose the battle against the lump in his throat, so he stood up and put on his hat but it simply slipped out of his lips, 'I am so sorry, I am so very sorry'.

He walked the few steps to the study door. Mr. Bell was coming down the stairs and joined him at the hall. Just as he closed the door behind him he heard Margaret replying,

'So am I.'

_When they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said:_

_'I was kept by those women in the drawing-room. Mrs. Shaw is__ anxious to get home-on account of her daughter, she says-and __wants Margaret to go off with her at once. Now she is no more fit_  
><em>for travelling than I am for flying. Besides, she says, and very <em>_justly, that she has friends she must see-that she must wish __good-bye to several people; and then her aunt worried her about_ _old claims, and was she forgetful of old friends? And she said, __with a great burst of crying, she should be glad enough to go __from a place where she had suffered so much. Now I must return to_ _Oxford to-morrow, and I don't know on which side of the scale to __throw in my voice.'_


End file.
